


Alone, Don't Leave

by rookerrogue



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Forgiveness, Friends to Lovers, Knight/Prime, M/M, Purple Prose, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Romance, Spark Sexual Interfacing (Transformers), purple prose up the ASS oh my god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:34:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25257004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rookerrogue/pseuds/rookerrogue
Summary: Rodimus was fire and beauty and the sun itself, everything Drift needed; and while Wing had been his grounding point—  his steady place to come back to—  Rodimus was.... well he was whatever it was when you left the ground behind. He met Drift in the shimmering beyond.Drift, a Knight of the Circle with the weight of all his sins on his back is assigned to become the protector of Rodimus, the newest Prime of Cybertron; chosen by the Matrix and revered as a holy one.
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Rodimus | Rodimus Prime
Comments: 10
Kudos: 60





	Alone, Don't Leave

**Author's Note:**

> Hey!!! Sooooo..... here we are again!
> 
> I posted a fic by the same name a year and a half ago, and after rereading it I decided to revamp it a little bit and add to it, just kind of rewrite it like i would if I wrote it today in my current writing style :) This is kind of scary to post because I don't know if what I added makes it better or worse, or if I should have just left it as it was without trying to make it better. But either way. . . here it is! Please enjoy!
> 
> [here is a playlist ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6IgrRYvGdb4RmjrWTYzDOl?si=Jzhau8GyR4OoRBSdVNG82g) for the fic made by my beautiful friend [biwindblade](https://biwindblade.tumblr.com/)

The red-gold mech, the chosen Prime with the Matrix ensconced in his chest, visited the Circle of Light and walked among them. It had been explained to them, how much of an honor it would be to be chosen, to travel with the Prime as his Protector, his fierce and shining companion. His Knight.

On the edges of the crowd, Drift and Wing stood to watch.

“He’s touched by the Matrix,” Wing had whispered. “It’s more than a bauble he wears. He  _ cleaves _ to it, and it to him. Drift, can you feel it? 

Drift could. 

“I’m sending you,” his mentor had said, decisively, turning to him. “There are many Knights here, but this Prime needs  _ you _ , Drift.”

“Please,” Drift had said then, desperate. “I’m not ready to leave you. If I leave– I might lose everything I’ve learned–”

“No, Drift. He  _ needs _ you.”

Had Rodimus needed him?

Back then, Drift hadn’t known. 

But after taking on the responsibilities of Knight for merely a month, he knew that  _ he _ needed Rodimus. Probably more than he should. More than was proper. He knew Dai Atlas might have chastised him for clinging so to his ward. But after his single month of Knightship, he’d learned that Rodimus was fire and beauty and the sun itself, everything Drift needed; and while Wing had been his grounding point— his steady place to come back to— Rodimus was.... well he was whatever it was when you left the ground behind. He met Drift in the shimmering beyond.

Three days after he had joined the Prime, Rodimus had called Drift into his chamber. Drift, nervous, had been stiff and overly formal. Rodimus had smiled brightly and showed him a secret chamber that housed energon candies, with strict instructions to get them to Rodimus whenever he was forced to sit in a long meeting of any kind. “Bring me my salvation” had been the words he used. Drift had smiled and nodded and sequestered some away in his subspace, should the need ever arise.

Four days after, Rodimus had come into Drift’s chambers and given him a sharpening stone, almost shy, explaining that it had been meant as a gift for whoever had been chosen. After Drift had taken it and expressed his thanks, Rodimus lingered. Drift, understanding and determined to protect his Prime from every danger, including embarrassment, sat down with him and demonstrated the sharpening of his short swords. Rodimus, in grateful return, taught him a song he had sung years ago, back when he was only an acolyte of Nyon.

Six days after, and Drift was finally called upon to give Rodimus his candies during a long meeting. Their fingers tangled together underneath the table as the handoff went flawlessly, and the bright lights of the boardroom glinted off of Rodimus’ plating— polished for the eyes of the many, to look upon their Prime and see perfection. It reflected into Drift’s eyes. Rodimus sat ramrod straight, the picture of attentiveness, as he slotted the energon sticks into a wrist line. He pushed one into Drift’s hand, and Drift, unwilling to admit that his frame offered no such way of consuming the candy without putting it to his mouth, held onto it for the entire meeting until it became sticky and melted, the rust coating seeping into his finger joints.

Seven days, and Rodimus taught him more songs. Drift, the devotee, the servant of God, the holy Knight, somehow felt no shame as he sang hymns to Primus— his voice tentative and rough compared to Rodimus’ clear tones— and looked only at his Prime. 

Twelve days after Drift had joined, Rodimus was knocking faintly at his hab’s door, too late at night for it to be simply a friendly meeting. Drift was awake before the last knock had faded, and opening the door before a second’s pause could pass after it. Rodimus, his Matrix-blue optics faded with exhaustion, looked up at him and asked, quietly, if he could sleep with him, just for tonight. 

Nightmares, Drift learned, plagued even Primus’ chosen. He could no more refuse Rodimus his request than he could push away his own nightmares, visceral memories of firing guns, blood dripping from his hands.

So Rodimus slept with him that night, and every night after that, clinging to his Knight as if Drift could push back the terrors. He couldn’t, but he could comfort his Prime when he awoke crying, could stroke his back and rub his spoiler until whatever demons Rodimus fought retreated— at least for now. 

After a month, Rodimus showed him the Matrix. He folded back the plating of his chest, baring the softly glowing relic as Drift sat across from him on the berth.

“Does it talk to you?” Rodimus asked, curiously, as Drift reverently touched the surface, looked into its bottomless blue. “It talks to me sometimes.”

“It does?”

“The last time was when we came to the Circle of Light,” Rodimus said. “It said that you would be a good Knight.”

“It did?” Drift asked, looking down at it again. “Me?”

He wasn’t good. But for Rodimus, he could try.

“The Matrix picked me,” Rodimus said. “But it picked you, too. Even if Wing hadn’t sent you, I would’ve asked.”

“You’re a Prime,” Drift said, deflecting as always, as a necessity, a saving grace against what Rodimus was offering him. “I’m not even a Knight.” Rodimus knew what his past was. Dai Atlas had insisted on telling him, so that Rodimus would know exactly  _ who _ he was traveling with.

“You’re  _ my _ Knight.”

Drift looked down. Rodimus caught his chin between two fingers— gently, carefully, more than Drift deserved— and tilted his head back up. The Matrix shone between them.

“You could be more,” Rodimus whispered. “Please… I… you could be more than my Knight.”

Rodimus, gold and light and fire and flames– Rodimus, the true Prime, God’s chosen. Rodimus wanted  _ him _ . Drift looked into his Prime’s eyes and  _ saw _ him, saw the loneliness behind the Matrix-blue shine, the twitching, delicate systems of glass and fiber.

Rodimus let go of him, shamefully, and turned to clasp his hands together in his lap. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” Drift said, suddenly determined. No, his Prime, his  _ Rodimus  _ would have no cause for humiliation or doubt in his presence. Not when Drift could protect him. 

That was what he was here for. This was what he had been called to do. 

He caught Rodimus in his arms. As Rodimus stared up at him, he traced the lines of his Prime’s face with a thumb, cradling his helm with his hand. They drew closer together, almost without knowing; Rodimus’ aura, always so vibrant, exploded in bright waves of confused delight as their noses brushed. 

“Tell me yes, Prime,” Drift said softly, almost pleading. Say yes, and grant Drift this mercy. Say yes, and make himself Drift’s forgiveness. 

Rodimus’ hands came up to grasp at Drift’s pauldrons, his eyes shining.  _ “Please,” _ he said instead.

The Matrix between them pulsed against Drift’s chest, syncing with his spark. He leaned in the rest of the way, accepting it; his lips touched Rodimus’, chaste and soft and gentle. Tenderly, hesitantly. 

Rodimus moved forward desperately as Drift made the briefest move to pull back, pressing their mouths together firmly, gripping his shoulders tighter as if he were afraid Drift would disappear. Drift kissed him back, lost and hungry and  _ relieved. _

They held each other for countless moments. The Matrix hummed between them; its heat and light, so holy, paled in comparison to Rodimus and the way he gasped against Drift’s mouth and cradled Drift’s head between his hands. The  _ fire _ of him, the lonely, flickering need that Drift could feel between every breath he took.

Rodimus’ chestplating transformed open the rest of the way, the pure white of his spark shining from behind the muted blue glow of the Matrix. Drift kissed him softly; his spark was soft and shining and beautiful, open in front of Drift. The abject trust of the action was overwhelming. 

_ How many sparks had Drift seen? How many dead? How many gone? _

But Rodimus trusted him. Even now. 

And Drift was his Knight, and he would never allow Rodimus to fear.

Drift let his hand fall, tracing the engraved edges of Rodimus’ spark chamber. Rodimus shivered— Drift pulled away quickly, ready to apologize, ready to beg for forgiveness. But Rodimus caught his hand and guided it back, letting the plating of Drift’s fingers feel the reaching, exploring tendrils of Rodimus’ sparklight. Their hands clasped together. Drift looked into Rodimus’ eyes.

His own chestplating cracked open. 

“Let me see you,” Rodimus whispered. “Please, Drift— ”

_ Anything,  _ Drift wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come. His plating transformed out of the way, and the room was lit with the light of their two sparks.

Rodimus took the hand that still held Drift’s own and reached out, slowly, to let a finger trace down the outline of Drift’s spark. 

“Can I— ” he asked.

“Do you want to?” Drift asked in return, knowing what Rodimus wanted. What he  _ needed.  _ “With  _ me?” _

Rodimus had to be sure. Drift wasn’t worthy of anything Rodimus could offer him. Not forgiveness, not mercy, not a chance to be one with him. To taste his spark and everything beyond that. To  _ merge  _ with him.  _ Rodimus.  _

“With you,” Rodimus said. “Please.”

Drift took hold of Rodimus, laid him down gently on the berth. Rodimus sighed happily, turning his head to rest against the gold-colored pillows. He was beautiful _. _

Drift, with his knees bracketing Rodimus’ waist, could have cried. _ Here  _ was an altar to kneel at, to prostate himself before. He let his hands fall, hesitantly, to Rodimus; framing his face, leaning down to kiss him once more. Rodimus tilted his head up eagerly, receiving it, kissing him back with all the hunger and desperation of a dying mech. 

“Please,” he said again, arching up into Drift. The allure of his spark pulled on Drift’s own. He knew he couldn’t hold out long— but why would he want to? Rodimus didn’t need to beg, didn’t need to ask for anything as long as Drift could give it to him. 

“Ready?” he asked softly, letting his body draw ever closer to his Prime’s; their forehelms pressed together. Rodimus closed his eyes and wrapped his hands around the back of Drift’s neck. His venting slowed. His lips formed a final, silent plea. 

Drift kissed them as he brought his chest down to meet Rodimus’, finally allowing their sparks to merge.

_ Rodimus— ! _

Rodimus met him first, in the middle ground, offering Drift welcome and gratitude and affection and—  _ love—  _ and Drift backpedaled from that momentarily, so unused to the  _ realness  _ of it, the raw and ready sincerity of what Rodimus was willing to give. It shouldn’t have been real, but it  _ was—  _ here where their sparks met, there was no hiding from each other. They saw each other as they were. 

Drift embraced what Rodimus had to offer and in turn, showed his Prime what he had to give; he gave Rodimus his determination to  _ protect, _ his duty to Rodimus as his Knight that hovered on the edge of so much more. Drift gave him his promises that he’d sworn as a Knight of the Circle; his adoration and the worship he held just below the surface of what he let Rodimus see.

He felt Rodimus’ dismay. 

_ Let me show you,  _ his Prime offered.  _ Let me show you why I don’t deserve that. _

Drift could have argued, but by then he was surrounded with a memory— Rodimus’ memory, brought to the surface of his mind to share with Drift, though Drift gathered that it was never far away. A memory of a city. 

Rodimus gave him the name.  _ Nyon. _

Small. Forgotten. They worked hard to keep their city alive, bearing the scorn and apathy of Cybertron’s larger city-states. Rodimus— Hot Rod, then, sparked in the midst of an ion storm and brought to his first hundred years in a temple, learning songs sung to Primus in the midst of what Nyon had become. Fire and flames, the holy altars of Nyon that Hot Rod slept among and awoke to the shuffling, rhythmic singing of priests so aged they could tell him of the days Primes walked among the ordinary people of Cybertron. 

_ I don’t understand,  _ Drift said.

_ Let me show you,  _ Rodimus repeated.

Drift was aware, suddenly, of something else; something larger than either of them, something ancient and endless and huge, and Rodimus took hold of it and shuddered, and Drift knew— this was the Matrix. Synced with Rodimus’ spark.  _ He cleaves to it,  _ Wing had said. Rodimus turned to Drift again. 

Memories surrounded Drift once more, but it was clear that they didn’t belong to Rodimus.

Zeta Prime had ruled for just under a million years, brought an era of security and prosperity to Cybertron. He forbade trade between Cybertronians and other species, declaring that they must be strong unto themselves; Cybertron’s economy flourished as he ruled with a strong hand and ensured that Cybertron would soon enter into another Golden Age. 

Drift surged with anger; this, he expressed, he  _ knew. _ Under Zeta’s rule, the larger city-states had pushed his own town of Rodion out of relativity in the trading area. After Zeta had forbidden the trade of Cybertronian weaponry to other species, Rodion’s many weapon factories had nearly ground to a halt. There were energon mines, of course, but they were few and far-between; Kaon had greater production in that area. Rodion had been as forgotten as Nyon. 

He sensed Rodimus taking control of Zeta’s memories firmly, forcing them to come out clearly. Obviously, the former Prime still wished to bestow accolades on himself, even in death.

Zeta received a prophecy from within the Matrix as his Primacy reached its peak; his time was coming to a close. A new Prime would be chosen, and he would be cast off. Zeta Prime dug deeper into the Matrix, demanding more, tearing apart its secrets to discover where this new Prime would come from. The Matrix told him; Nyon, the city of rust-kissed acolytes and starving protoforms, would bring forth Cybertron’s new Prime. Zeta would find his destruction there. 

Furious, unwilling to let go of what he’d begun to create, Zeta resolved to ensure that no successor could ever arise from Nyon. He was Prime; his authority was absolute. None of his inner circle questioned him as he began to quietly and systematically destroy the people of Nyon. To anyone who cared, he cited his ultimate wisdom in the Matrix, explaining that Nyon’s lack of meaningful contributions to Cybertron’s economy meant their citizens had outlived their usefulness. 

Rodimus’ fury burned bright around Drift. 

_ We disappeared one by one. The oldest first— the priests, the ones who raised me. Then more of us, until I went to search. I found them underground. My people, being drained of their lifeforce, harvested for Zeta’s purposes. Another source of energy. _

Drift felt it as keenly as Hot Rod had felt it then— the horror, the overwhelming feeling of sudden, sickening helplessness and terror. What could he do against a Prime? Against God’s chosen? 

Rodimus laid more memories in front of Drift, sudden flickerings of apprehension at the edges of their shared consciousness.  _ Look,  _ he said.  _ Let me show you. _

Hot Rod, terrified at the sins he was committing, trying at every possible moment to stop the disappearances; despairing at the slow deaths his people were going through down below the city, despairing at their pain, at his  _ failure.  _ Trying and trying, working to stop it; panicking, realizing nothing could be done. For every officer he killed, saving one of his people from being dragged away to the harvester, four more appeared. 

And Hot Rod became well known, became targeted. Zeta himself knew of the Nyonian acolyte who defied his plan, became enraged at his existence, sending mech after mech to kill him. But Hot Rod never went down. Through some impossibility— what the old Hot Rod would have called a miracle— he had always escaped.

Praying that he would never have to use them, praying to a God he believed in less every day, Hot Rod wired the city with phasma charges, realizing that if he couldn’t deliver his people, he could at least offer them a swift death. He worked hard after the wiring was done, desperate to fix what was steadily being broken. But Zeta worked harder.

At the last hour, Zeta arrived himself, in Nyon.

Behind him came a line of mechanized warriors taller than the city, sparkless, generators in their hands, ready to harvest the mecha that still lived above Nyon and finish off the ones that suffered below her. And Zeta was here, to witness it all.

Hot Rod met him, in the streets of Nyon. 

He hadn’t said a word to his Prime; hadn’t looked him in the eye. Instead, he bent his head, put his gaze towards Primus and his people below, said a final prayer and begged for forgiveness, from everyone.

And he set off the charges.

It had been beautiful, his death; he had lifted his head and felt the fire around him grow fiercer, heard the far-away crashes of Zeta’s harbingers of doom as they fell, one by one, blown apart and burned to bits of metal. Zeta himself died screaming. Hot Rod could gather that much as fire gathered higher and higher around both of them, roaring, hotter than the sun shining on Nyon’s streets, than the brands pressed into acolytes’ plating, than the holy fire that flickered around the altars. 

But when the fire calmed— when Nyon had been torn to pieces, when Hot Rod’s home and people, everything he’d ever known was gone— Hot Rod was still alive. 

He’d fallen to his knees among the wreckage; he didn’t know how, but the flame hadn’t consumed him. He still lived. He’d killed his people, and he still lived. 

Drift felt the pain and sorrow, the overwhelming grief that Hot Rod had felt then. He felt Hot Rod’s rage;  _ why hadn’t he died,  _ he demanded of Primus.  _ Why did he still function?! _

Hot Rod had crawled, knee by knee, hand over hand, alight with flame but still,  _ still _ impossibly unharmed, to the melted, torn mess that had been Zeta Prime. Something called to him from there; a pull from the twisted metal, inexorable and impossible to ignore. 

Rodimus’ bitterness filled the space between them for a moment, sharp and acrid. A single thought.

_ I never wanted it. _

Drift experienced it as Hot Rod did— the way the Matrix found itself in his hands. The way it glowed brighter than the star above in his grasp. The feeling, indescribable and infinite, of  _ bonding  _ with it— the wisdom of thousands of Primes surrounding him, telling him  _ welcome home _ —  _ welcome, chosen one _ —

And it had been wonderful. It had  _ felt  _ wonderful. 

But as Rodimus Prime came back to himself, looked down at his hands and the Matrix within them, he wanted nothing more than to throw it away. To burn it like he’d burned his city. 

He hadn’t.

He’d been found there, a week later, still curled around the Matrix and the wreck of his home, and the rest— well, the rest Drift knew.

_ I’m a murderer. _

_ You’re my Prime,  _ Drift insisted.

_ After all I’ve done. . . I should have died with them.  _ Rodimus’ guilt and grief was palpable.  _ I should have died.  _

Drift ached. He reached for Rodimus; his Prime’s surprise was bright and pointed. Drift felt it, smoothed it away. 

_ You’re not the only sinner here. _

He’d been afraid, before, to share his own pain and guilt with his Prime; there  _ were  _ things you could hide during a merge, and Drift hadn’t planned on giving Rodimus everything he’d done. But he knew he had to. It was the only thing he  _ could  _ do.

Their merge was getting harder to hold on to— it’d break soon, the sensation of bonding close to overwhelming their systems. But Drift pushed on, offering up what fragments of memory he could; vague and blurred with age. He’d spent countless years below the underbelly of Rodion, after all. But what he could give Rodimus, he gave him.

Rodion had been the city-state Drift had been forged in; by the time he’d come online, it had already been run down by Zeta’s actions. And while Nyon had been able to create a close-knit community to survive in, the people of Rodion turned on each other. 

Drift had committed atrocities, just to stay alive. He didn’t have time to convey them all, nor would he have wished some of the worse ones on his Prime; those were sins to confess later, with his voice and Rodimus’ hand on his helm. Not here, where Rodimus would feel the rage and bloodlust he’d felt then— visceral and desperate, born in the knowledge that if it wasn’t the mech below him bleeding out into the street, it would be Drift.

Rodion still produced weapons; it was the only thing they  _ could  _ make. So Drift walked the streets of the Dead End armed with blaster and vibroblade, killing as he went. He became skilled at the art of death and violence; soon, his face and name were well known. He’d been caught, trained, sent back out into Cybertron with deadly intent. Now, he killed mecha that were missed on Senate seats the day after.

Inevitably, Drift had been assigned targets that lay beyond Cybertron, flying out into the expanse of the universe beyond to assassinate some great and powerful figure that he would have read about later if he’d been onlined with a literacy program. The killing had never bothered him. 

Shame filled the space between them; the killing had never bothered him. It had been a way to stay alive. 

_ I forgive you,  _ Rodimus said. As easily as that— sincere, open and honest. 

Drift shattered. The rest spilled from him, blurry and rapid: The shuttle crash, the Circle of Light finding him, Wing— _Wing,_ Drift’s long struggle toward repentance and a glimpse at the light of God and his Prime. . . everything else that Rodimus already knew, all mired behind the shock of Rodimus’ forgiveness. 

Drift didn’t deserve it. 

_ I don’t deserve your. . . worship, either,  _ Rodimus returned.  _ We can be even in the things we don’t deserve. _

_ We’re in this together,  _ Drift told him.  _ I’ve got you. No matter what. _

Rodimus’ being surrounded Drift’s, eagerly, as if they could merge again. Drift welcomed the closeness, offering Rodimus everything,  _ everything. _

_ Now I know,  _ Rodimus said to him.  _ Why the Matrix chose you.  _

_ I know why it chose you, too,  _ Drift replied.

Together, they spiraled higher and higher into the golden beyond of their shared sparks. Rodimus laughed, loud and clear and happy; Drift pressed closer to him, wanting  _ more,  _ wanting it all—  _ Rodimus.  _ He could feel the merge grow wilder, just on the edge of breaking, the two of them losing control as their systems climbed, simultaneously, to overload. 

_ I love you— !  _

Neither knew who had said it. Maybe they both had. But it was enough— it was  _ more  _ than enough, sending them tipping into overload together, clutching each other, their systems running every pleasure program and more; Rodimus clung to Drift, gasping out an incoherent rhythm. His optics glowed overbright, spilling out into the air; Drift knew his own were close to shorting out. The excess charge radiated through them, running from one frame to the next, sending tiny sparks flying from between their armor plates. 

They came down together, panting, the condensation heavy on their plating. Drift toppled to the side next to Rodimus, who was staring up at the ceiling, his eyes wide.

“Drift. . .” he managed.

Drift reached for him, blindly, pulling him into an embrace. Rodimus went to him eagerly, wrapping his arms around Drift’s neck and tucking his head underneath his chin. They held each other for a few minutes, their systems cycling down from the high. 

Rodimus, Drift realized, was crying. They weren’t the bitter, frightened tears of his nightmares; instead, Rodimus shivered against Drift’s chest and cried quietly, letting Drift stroke his cheek and back until he calmed.

“I’ve got you,” Drift repeated. “I’m here.”

“Don’t leave,” Rodimus said softly. 

“Never,” Drift promised.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> yes, there is a Furmanism in here somewhere. I wrote it by accident and then realized it was too funny to cut out.


End file.
